middaeg | open; underneath it all

Entry tags:

open; underneath it all

Who: Mary and ~~his dinner~~ YOU
When: Backdated to 6/23
Where: In the nightmare
What: Mary touches him some Minotaur bones.
Warnings: Dream murder and people eating. However, no threads in this log will end in death unless you also comment on this plotting post!

The labyrinth seems almost fun at first, a large-scale recreation of the cutesy hedge mazes from earlier. Mary dives in the same way he always does: head first. It's in this same fashion that he bulldozes his way to the center even with his shoddy sense of direction. The pay off, however, leaves a great deal to be desired. Wading through murky waters, navigating the dim lighting, tripping over a stranger's rib cage, all just so he can catch a glimpse of a stripped and soaking skeleton. He can barely make out the shape of the Minotaur's bones through the darkness, but he doesn't have anywhere else to go either. Mary moves in, feeling the shapes with his palms and shoving his face at the discolored portions.

He remembers waiting for someone else to show up, feeling bored enough to play around with the smaller bones a bit. He thinks he talked to them at one point. Eventually, it occurs to him that the uncomfortable feeling rising in his gut is hunger. But he hasn't had to drink blood since he got here. He's even been able to eat other foods! He shouldn't be hungry, not like this. It must just be this place, he concludes as he stands, ready to leave.

By the time he accidentally stumbles right back to that skeleton, his hands are as dark as his surroundings, and his throat burns in a way it hasn't since he'd been literally set aflame. Thought is increasingly difficult. It's so much easier to feel - the heavy water, the burning pain, the desperate hunger....

Oh, yeah. He knows how to fix that, doesn't he? How stupid. If he's hungry, then all he has to do is eat.

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harry is trudging along, a small lantern cobbled out of debris and lit with magic flaming dimly in the dreamlight and darkness. He was tired having searched for anything he could learn, and had come up mostly empty.

His tiredness made his senses more dull and even peering into the shadows yielded little in the way of light or answers. He sighed. "This is going nowhere. Time to head back home."

He laughed. Great, now he was talking to himself. Shaking his head, he turned to head back to the home he shared with Justine.

In a passage as dark as these, any kind of flame stands out like a glaring headlight in the night. Mary is instantly attracted to its movement. One vibrant red eye and one haunting white glow lock onto the lantern light, and his nose twitches at the smell of organs alive with blood. He hasn't had a real meal in so long. So long... And even obstructed by the stagnant reek of the water, it's still so maddeningly sweet.

A name flashes through his conscience. Maria? Yeah, Maria. It's an important name, he knows, but he can't remember why, and he's starving for that blood, burning for it. He doesn't want to remember. He just wants to eat before the owner of that name stops him.

Mary doesn't sneak through the labyrinth's passageways. He doesn't try to keep quiet as he wades through the water. He doesn't have the patience or even the brain capacity for something as calculated as that. No, he runs. The murky water splashes and slaps, loudly announcing Harry's company just before a 5'4, scrawny teenage boy lunges for his throat.

Harry started and tried to scramble backward, tripping and falling onto his back as he swung his arms to try to knock the person away. He tried to summon his tired min's concentration, but he felt wiped out even as he wondered what the hell was going on.

"What the --- stop that!"

He gestured, and a flicker of fire flashed out, but missed the young man as Harry hesitated at the apparent age of the boy.

There's something there.

It's strange. Even after acknowledging this fact to himself, he couldn't say for sure how he knows. Some kind of instinct, some new sense he hasn't quite got hold of the way he wants to. The way he needs to, in order to survive. There is a flicker of sight or sound or scent that tells him someone is close. If he had practiced, he'd be able, maybe, to say who.

As it is, he jolts like a side character in a horror movie, shoulders coming up to hunch around his ears until he exhales long and slow and forces himself to relax. Whether it's true or not that fear is something that can be smelled, he can sense his own fear, and he knows it will break him if he gives it half a chance. He simply can't afford it, not in a place like this.

There again — something. Movement this time, he sees that much. He reaches inside himself for Gold Experience once again and clenches his fists in frustration as his Stand doesn't come, again; spins instead to catch sight of whatever moved—

"Mary?"

The knife he keeps by the side of his bed is up his sleeve in this dream. He doesn't know how this happened. It would be nice to think it just wanted to come along. It would be nice to not have to use it. But Mary doesn't look right. He rubs his forearm in a way that comes off as an absent, nervous gesture — just to make sure the blade's still there.

Being slapped away mid-lunge is hard to handle gracefully, and Mary fails as spectacularly as one would expect. He splashes down into the low water not two inches from his would-be prey's shoulder, rolling through the veritable swamp at the same time Harry lands on his back. Not even a crash is enough to bring him to a pause, however, let alone a full stop. He's back on his feet the moment he comes to a halt, swinging his arm for a punch to the face.

It's not until fire flashes before his vision that he stalls, frozen for half a second before whirling his head around to see where the attack has charred the labyrinth wall behind him. This guy... Mary refocuses on Harry himself, his one red eye narrowing. This guy is dangerous. He can't waste any time.

The only reply Mary offers is to stomp down Harry's shoulder with a coal black, infected leg and once more grasp for the man's throat.

Harry struggled upward and then cried out as the punch landed and falling backward.

He was getting blurry. Being knocked down then getting punched made his head ring, and he had already been too tired. He tried to focus on more fire, or air, but his fingers got knocked aside as a leg came down and the shoe with it and slammed into his shoulder, bringing pain and weakness that washed over him.

"Aghhhh!"

He fought still, trying to bat the guy away with one hand, but his heart was pounding and his vision swimming as he tried to get a good look at his attacker in the dimness. He shuddered, memories of other vampires washing over him, and he felt horror and fear clutch at him.

Mary? What's that? He knows he's heard that name before, but he doesn't get far enough to actually question where. Instead, he turns to face the man who's called out in this desolate maze.

Though the lighting in the labyrinth is dim at best, Mary's face is illuminated by his one glowing white eye. Dried, caking blood stains the side of his mouth, and his fangs are slick with red, glinting for just a moment before Mary's lips tighten into a thin line. This guy smells familiar. He also smells delicious. Mary's whole body tenses, sending a ripple through the water.

"I'm hungry."

It's a warning. He can't - won't - feed from anyone else. What's left of his mind utterly rejects it, even as his body terrorizes him for it. But it's also a statement of intent. He can reject it all he wants, but that doesn't change the fact he needs to eat. That's all he needs now.

There's no escape.

Edited (and for the edits. i'm done now.) 2019-07-16 07:43 (UTC)

That cry... It causes a shudder to run down Mary's spine, and he can't help but salivate. The stranger already smells unbearably enticing, like coffee at 3AM. Such a sweet howl is the perfect blend of cream and sugar to top it off.

So when Harry struggles, his hand pounding against Mary's face, his red eye glints between two of Harry's fingers, and Mary bites down hard on his palm. Two sharp fangs dig into the flesh, drawing blood. Unlike in so many vampire tales, however, he doesn't just drain the blood and leave an otherwise intact corpse. Oh no, he chomps like a crazed attack dog, tearing at the meat of Harry's hand with inhuman force.

Harry is dealing with a real damn monster, not the pretty chimeras and turnskins of this world. He has every reason to be scared.

harry cries out again as those fangs pierce his skin, and he suddenly realizes what it is he faces.

Nightmares old and new slam together in his mind, and he screams as he remembers being fed on by a horde of vampires. He shudders, his whole body shaking in the feel of it, and cries out. Some part of him tries to muster magic, and fails, as he tries t pull back, tries to kick the other, and can only flail and cry out again. No!

Not again!

Mary doesn't even register Harry's desperate struggles. The crying man kicks and jolts at him from below, adrenaline and survival instincts throwing him into a frantic frenzy, but all his efforts are overpowered by the taste of blood and muscle on Mary's tongue. The ecstasy of it smothers Mary's other senses. He swallows a chunk of Harry's hand, feels the raw flesh slide down his throat, and he smiles. He smiles down at Harry like he's thanking him for a birthday gift basket, blood dribbling down his chin.

His own hand is still tightly wound around Harry's neck, but he doesn't try to choke the man. He uses the position to steady himself as he shoves past flailing limbs to sink his fangs into Harry's chest. Mary's following the blood to its source. If Harry's hand alone can make him shiver at the taste, then his heart must be downright divine.

Pain stabs into him and he cries out. Harry begins to weaken as he is drained, flailing against the other in increasingly weak ways, and reaching up to strike against the face, the hair, and strength seeming to leave him.

"Damn you." The words are low, and gasped out and Harry's vision starts to narrow and darken.

I'm hungry.

The hair on the back of Giorno's neck stands up. This — this isn't Mary. Not the Mary who was so excited to try new things before — sushi or soba? Not the Mary he met the first night who made him smile despite himself.

This is the other side of Mary. And himself, he realizes. Here he is, all alone, staring down dripping fangs that could just as easily be his own. No Stand, no power but the one given to him by the moons that he's stubbornly refused to learn.

They're both the same sort of Monster. Except Mary is much, much better at being a vampire than Giorno is.

"I won't taste good," Giorno murmurs, dropping the handle of the knife from his sleeve into his palm, fingers going tight around it. "I'm the same thing you are."

He wishes he could just leave. But even in a dream, if someone's going to be hurt, it has to be him. No more civilians getting hurt in his place. Never again.

Harry's crumbling efforts do at least manage to poke Mary in the eye before the agitated vampire swats him away. It's not as appetizing when his prey actually manages to get a jab in! He pulls back and shakes the sting away, showering Harry with his own blood in the process. His brow twitches, furrowing with frustration at the man losing consciousness beneath him. The guy doesn't even have the decency to cry out again like before. He just breathes that boring curse like it's supposed to mean something. The words certainly aren't worth interrupting Mary's meal, and he's too hungry to put up with them anymore.

With a low growl, Mary finally tightens his grip on Harry's throat. Jet black nails pierce the vulnerable flesh on both sides before he rips half of the man's neck clear and tosses it into the murky water behind them.

Now he can dine on Harry's heart without a care.

Mary never has fed from another vampire, that much is true. Giorno's probably right. Mary doesn't give a shit.

He smells so damn good that it's nauseating. Mary can't think about anything else. He doesn't even notice Giorno's knife. He's too busy contemplating flesh, muscle, organs, nerves, blood. It's all moving, pumping, dancing together in one conveniently Giorno-shaped package. All Mary has to do is get inside.

He takes a deep breath, in then out, savoring the scent one last time. Then he charges. Inky black limbs carry him through the murky waters, sending up splashes with every stomp, until he's taking a swing at his latest prey's neck. This isn't play time. He's aiming for vitals; he's aiming for the kill.

Pain and darkness swim up as Harry feels himself pass out... lising all sense of self. all sense of life.

And when he wakes again, he is at the start of the dream, starting where he was when it all began, but still remembering every moment of that dark experience.

***

He misses Gold Experience. With Gold Experience, he could be impervious: a rapid-fire growth of vines up and out, surrounding him, cocooning him, causing damage to any who dared come close — but Gold Experience is gone. There is a choked, fearful thought that strikes him now, at the worst possible time: Is Gold Experience dead?

But there's no time to think about it. Gold Experience isn't here, and he is alone, left to live or die on his own merit. Mary is serious and experienced and hungry, and death is death, no matter where it happens.

Mary charges, swings at his neck, and his arm is up; Mary catches him, but not at the throat, claws dragging gauges down the outside of his arm near his elbow. Still braced against Mary's forearm, he twists, punches down as hard as he can to slash down Mary's shoulder before ducking away, sliding in the slick mud. Faster than he's used to, as fast as this body can go for now. It's life or death, after all.

Fighting is supposed to be about survival, about winning rights and protecting what one has. That's why people put so much emphasis on guarding their vitals, predicting their opponents, and even resorting to cheap tricks. Mary, on the other hand, taught himself to fight while lacking any semblance of self-preservation. The habits ingrained in him are all motivated by a desire for death rather than triumph. Even though he no longer wants to end his life, those habits are all he has to fall back on.

When Giorno guards against his violent slash, Mary just moves to strike again with his opposite arm. He neither expects nor blocks the punishing blow to his shoulder. Something definitely cracks in his joint. He can hear the snapping sound echo through the labyrinthian corridors, followed by his own hoarse cry. He leaps back at the same time Giorno ducks away, low and alert, allowing his injured arm to splash uselessly in the mud.

But not for long.

It's surprise that catches him off guard, not pain. The throbbing of his dislocated or broken shoulder (he has no idea which, doesn't care either way) isn't enough to outweigh the intoxicating scent of Giorno's blood dripping down his arm. After a hasty shake of his head, Mary takes chase, and this time he stays low. He kicks off the labyrinth wall to gain momentum, aiming to trip Giorno and stop his escape.

Mary's fast. He's fast, too, but less used to the advantages of this body, less willing to use teeth and claws instead of weapons. And he cares when he's hurt, it matters to him. Pain hurts, the trickle of blood down his elbow sparking fear in his gut.

But there's no time. Mary doesn't care about his own injuries, that much is clear — so Giorno can't rely on him to act defensively. Aggression is the only way, then; aggression and evasion, or that's it, he'll die. He has to incapacitate Mary completely—

Or kill him.

This time, when Mary lunges, once he gets close enough Giorno holds his knife up — out, at arms' length — lets both his and Mary's momentum carry the knife at full strength into Mary's eye — twists it, drags it sideways, and out.

But he stumbles, the thrust and weight propelling him backwards, falling and unable to catch himself. All he can do is hold the knife out in front of him, the tiniest barrier between Mary and himself.

Edited (spelling) 2019-08-15 01:51 (UTC)

This time Mary doesn't just cry out, he screeches. It's an unearthly, high-pitched razor of a sound that struggles in time with Giorno's twisting forearm. Blindly, Mary flails for the knife, but it's all in vain. Giorno snaps the last few strands connecting Mary's eye to his nervous system, and that cacophonous screech climaxes, bubbling over and fizzing out into erratic, liquid breaths. Blood pools from the now dark and empty socket before Mary throws his only working hand over top to cover it. Only the eerie, inhuman white eye remains, and it is laser focused on the blood-soaked knife in Giorno's hand.

Pain is one thing. Damage is another. With one arm out of commission and now a freely bleeding eye socket to contend with, Mary has no way of winning. Still, a vampire can't pretend to be anything else. The more blood he loses, the more blood he needs. His fear of death is overwhelming, but his instinct is even more so. Amidst the chaos of shock, pain, and fear, a new contender arises in Mary's mind.

Rage.

Gnarling, gnashing teeth growl as he launches himself face first at Giorno and sinks his fangs in just below the knee. Half of his face is covered in blood by now, and he splatters it all over Giorno as well. He must be losing more than he can drink. That won't stop him.

The pain is so sudden, so unbelievably sharp. It's like two fistfuls of knives being shoved into his leg, meeting in the middle, wedging his flesh apart little by little. He has felt worse pain, but not by much and not in quite some time.

Even so, strangely, he doesn't cry out. Barely makes any noise, a low, hissing hum that he quickly stifles with tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth, tears springing to the corners of his eyes with the pain — but he doesn't cry out. He freezes, going rigid with pain on his back in the mud as the first wave of agony crashes over him. Then adrenaline hits, and he's reaching out, the claws of one hand reaching out to dig into Mary's shoulder, to hold him still, while the other shaking hand drives the knife as close to Mary's spine as he can manage.

It's okay, he thinks dizzily, I can grow a new leg— except, of course, he can't. Not anymore.

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open; underneath it all

Doom

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sorry for how late this is;

sorry for how late this is;

s'alright! <3

<333

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no worries <3

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cw eye gore

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